Immigration from the other side

By SARAH GARDNER

The first wave of culture shock is, naturally, around the most basic issues – eating, sleeping, and well, all that physical stuff. When I first entered my apartment in Lanzhou,China, some kind soul had already made up the bed for me. I was exhausted, and it looked inviting. But when I crawled between the sheets, I discovered that the Chinese standard of comfort is a slab of particle-board upholstered with a thin quilted pad. My pillow was a beanbag made of wheat hulls. I spent my first couple of weeks sleep-deprived, until a friend directed me to a source of foam rubber padding for the bed.

I didn’t fare too much better when it came to eating, at first. I was surrounded everywhere I went by street vendors offering luscious-looking fruit and vegetables, but I was hesitant to try to buy. I had been warned (erroneously, as it turns out) that I would be overcharged because I am a foreigner. Plus, I didn’t know the names of things, and even if I shopped by pointing and grunting, I might not understand how much money the merchant was asking for. It was all too much for my fatigue-addled brain, so I lived on rice and eggs from the supermarket until I mustered the courage to buy other foods.

Language is, of course, the looming obstacle in every interaction. There are countless simple errands I have simply abandoned because the language barrier is too impenetrable. I carried my last band-aid around with me for quite awhile, pulling it out and waving it plaintively at clerks in supermarkets and pharmacies to see if I could buy some more, without success. I heard lots of advice, but understood none of it. Finally I discovered by accident that band-aids in China are sold by street vendors, the same ones who sell sewing thread and new insoles for shoes.

I have also discovered a more subtle and unexpected dimension of the language problem. Some of my professional colleagues treat me like a backward pre-schooler. They take pains to explain obvious facts and assume that I need extra drill before I master the simplest piece of new information. At first I was baffled by this patronizing behavior, especially among my peers. I would smile and nod and grind my teeth. Finally, I think I’ve figured it out. On an unconscious level, these colleagues believe that since I can’t process information in Chinese, I can’t process information at all. I have observed foreigners being treated this way in the U.S.; I hope I’ve never been guilty of it. Now I just smile and nod and give my molars a rest.

I am looking forward to living in China long enough and getting to know the Chinese language and people well enough finally to unravel some of the more complex cultural mysteries. For example, I can see that the Chinese distinction between private space and public space is different from ours in the U.S., and I’m curious to discover more about that. Chinese people casually litter the streets with all kinds and quantities of waste, yet their homes and their personal grooming are totally fastidious. My students cram their classroom desks with dirty tissues and food scraps, yet are, themselves, always well-scrubbed and neatly dressed. I cringe at some of the messes I must sidestep in my daily life, but they are at the same time a source of fascination.

“How shall we sing the Lord’s song upon an alien soil?” (Psa. 137:4). In my case, it is, for now, slightly off key in the pidgin we call “Chinglish.” But I sing it joyfully, grateful for the opportunity to live and work in this amazing place.